


Kneel

by charmtion



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Political Jon Snow, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-26 04:33:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21737635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/charmtion/pseuds/charmtion
Summary: ‘When his hand moves to circle her ankle, she lets it. When his palm rasps up her leg, she lifts her skirt to help him. When he looks up at her with a question in his gaze, she nods. When he buries his face between her thighs, she tips back her head and whimpers.’A king kneels before his true queen and things getheated. That’s it—that’s the fic.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark
Comments: 28
Kudos: 138





	Kneel

**Author's Note:**

> > Sort of spin-off-prequel-sequel-thing to [To Be Alone](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21697654). Idea of masks. Control. Fire-haired queen blazing up in our boi’s belly. Let’s have it. 🔥

Late. Pale moonlight at the windows. Black-knife shadow following him as he cuts his way through the corridors of grey stone. Castle is quiet. Sentries on the battlements: shuffling boots, flare of sparking braziers — the only sounds scratching at the night. Deep, silent as the black pool at the heart tree’s foot. The latch thumps out heavy as he lifts it. Slides on soundless feet inside his chamber. 

Senses her before he sees her. Shadow in the corner of his solar. Pale as the moonlight, her cheeks shone to ivory in its glow. Steps forward on feet soundless as his own. Like dancers, how they circle each other. Like wolves. Light-footed. Feels his shoulders bracing forward even as he fights to draw them back. Savage light in her sapphire eyes; his mouth waters at the sight of it. Fingers furling at his sides.

“Quite the performance earlier,” she says softly. “Allies. Power. _My queen_.”

He bristles. “She’s _our_ — ”

“Will you stop?” she murmurs. “Will you just _stop_ it?”

Nostrils flaring. “Stop what?”

“You’re playing an act, I understand that.” Chain clinking softly as she tilts her head to the side. “But it doesn’t mean you have to play the fool.”

Fist at his side now. “Sansa — ” 

“My _queen_ ,” says it in a sing-song voice. “You’re _my queen_.”

“Enough,” growls it. “ _Enough_ , Sansa.”

“Is it? Is it enough, my _king_?”

“I’m not — ”

“No,” she says icily. “You are not.”

Dancers. Wolves. Hackles up now. Almost brow to brow, how close they stand. Throwing the other in shadow. Blood beating wildly at his throat. Mouth watering as he sees her own pulse-point flickering beneath the moon-pale skin. Fists at his sides gradually unfurling — finger by finger — till they are reaching out to settle on her hip. She steps back smartly.

“You went south a king,” she says in the same icy tone. “Came back a fool who only knows one phrase.” Lifts her chin. “The sight of you _standing_ there offends me. On your knees.”

Blinks at her. Slowly. “What did you just say?” 

“Kneel,” spits the word like an apple-seed between her teeth. “Now.”

For half a breath, he’s frozen. Fingers still cradling the air in place of her hip. She watches him impassively. Blue-wide gaze fixed on his as slowly his blood warms, muscles move, bones unfold till he’s on his knees before her. Bite of ice from the flagstones gnawing through his breeches. Pressure at his belt. So hard it hurts. Same impassive light in her bored eyes; but he sees the fleeting way she nips at her lip with her teeth.

“That’s better,” she murmurs. “Much better.”

“Sansa,” breathes it. “ _Sansa_.”

“Quiet.”

Kiss of steel to his throat, the breezy way she says it. Calm, clear, _cool_ as the flecks of sea-ice shining in her gaze. But it burns him. Blisters across his skin till he’s staring up at her. Lips parted, furrow in his brow, blood-blaze colouring his cheeks. Shifts on his knees slightly, fingertips flexing against the flagstones. Her skirts in front of him. Sifting in waves of ash around her hips. Pretty, pointed boot poking out. Lifts it, lays the sole of her shoe gently against his thigh. He moans — he _moans_. Scrabbles to hold it in his fist. She lets him, watches indifferently as he swipes a thumb across the well-worn leather. 

*

Mask has slipped. Slipped soon as she cut across him. Ate up his words with her own. Sing-song voice to cut away his strings of self-control. Mocking tone to rile him up _just_ enough to strike the steel of who he is: a king, a lord, a man — a _wolf_. Not this fool he plays at being. This wooden cut-out of a warrior in love with a silver-haired queen. 

Kneeling now before her like he is a sycophant to her shrine. Eyes burning up at hers bright as candles. Her name in his mouth uttered sweet and soft as a prayer. Smoke between them. Not incense or a septon’s herbs. No. Something darker. Deeper. More dangerous. Something that threatens always to destroy them both completely. _Hunger_. Like wolves denied a hunt, the way it waters on the tongue. Slips down the throat salt-hot as blood.

“Take it off.”

Says it softly, but he obeys it like she’s got a knife held to his throat. Fingers picking at the laces of her boot, slipping the leather off her foot. She puts it to the stinging flagstones, lifts the other, settles it on his lap. A nod this time, no words. Laces. Leather. Lingering fingertips on the top of her pale, bare foot. Lets him touch her. Watches as he gazes up at her with round, dark eyes. Tongue threading out to wet his bottom lip. Flush of heat between her hipbones now; smoke turning the air hot as ash between them.

“Tell me,” she says softly. “Have you remembered anymore words yet… or is it still your age-old favourites?” Tilts her head. “Allies. Power. _My queen_.”

“Sansa,” breathes it. “ _Sansa_.”

“That’s better,” she murmurs. “Much better.”

Playing her own part now. One they both need her to play. Strips him of the mask he wears all hours of the day. Settles the frenzy in her mind that wonders if her lover is run full to being the _fool_ he has to act. Doubts him sometimes — she can’t help it. The passive way he sits in council, ink-dark eyes settled on the silver-haired queen. The wooden way he wields his words. But here, _now_ , how could she doubt him? 

The mask is gone, true enough. The man — the _wolf_ — stares back at her, heart laid bare in his round, dark gaze. Quietly, she reaches for it. Fingertips kneading his shoulders now. Moan low in his throat. Heart between her fingers — it may as well be — she feels the beat of it. Keeps rhythm with her own; flares white-hot to bloom between her thighs. Relaxes now. Parts falling away — his, _hers_ — as wolves watch each other, masks thrown into the fire. 

When his hand moves to circle her ankle, she lets it. When his palm rasps up her leg, she lifts her skirt to help him. When he looks up at her with a question in his gaze, she nods. When he buries his face between her thighs, she tips back her head and whimpers.

*

Leg thrown over his shoulder. Pale thigh against his cheek. Air filled with soft, wet sounds: his mouth, her moans, pitter-patter of snowflakes at the window. Bare heel drumming against his back as he rolls her with his tongue. Nuzzles against her thigh. Savage light in his ink-dark eyes to see the rasp of red left by his beard.

“Jon,” she breathes. “ _Jon_.”

Doesn’t mind that she keeps uttering only one phrase, one word. How could he? Sweetest thing any man could hear. Wolfsong on the moonlit air. Pretty as the songs she sometimes sings him when blackness threatens to keep him from sleeping. Pacifying as the fingertips she trails up and down his back till he dozes like a babe in her arms. Grips her hip a little tighter now, rocks her closer to his face.

Her fingers in his hair. Stroking one moment, slicing nails to his scalp the next. He moans against her. Flat, soft tongue. Plush lips parting as he suckles her. Thousand words in his head now. Filthy soldier’s talk, words borrowed from the Mole’s Town brothel. Spits them into her skin and she shudders. Rolls her hips. Mask of the lady slipping from her face with every wanton sound she makes.

Sags against him. Fingers twining into his hair. Pulling his head back as she gazes down at him: ragged lips, blue-wide eyes bright as the moon at the window. Smile at each other. Slow. Like wolves eyeing up the hunt. He rocks back on his haunches, gives a tug on her skirts, watches as she folds to the floor. He catches her hips. Slams her onto her belly on the flagstones. Swoops low to land a bite on her neck.

“On your knees,” growls it into her skin.

Hands and knees in front of him. Skirts thrown over her hips, lapping dark as wine across the flagstones as she sags onto her elbows. _Allies. Power. My queen_. All for this. All for her. Wrenches at his belt now, pushes inside her. Teeth rattling with a groan near deep as hers. Wolfsong burning on the air.

Fool. Wooden cut-out of a warrior. He’ll play whatever part he must. Wear a mask. Kiss a silver-haired queen beneath a waterfall. Hide his fury. Make his eyes show blank. Repeat a phrase till it burns like bile on his tongue. Whatever it takes. Let them say what they will of him. Call him coward. Fool. Liar. He knows the truth — so does _she_. Here, _now_ , they spin it out in shades of moonlight: wolves howling together in the night.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> Sarcastic Sansa and Shoe-Shiner Jon might be my new fav trope now. Don’t know where it came from; but here it is. Throw your thoughts at me — I will catch them and gently hold them in my hands and beam (non-creepily) at you in gratitude. ❤️


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